by Blaze Ward
Queen Anne’s Revenge
CS-405: Book One
Blaze Ward
Contents
Trouble (April 3, 402)
Engineering (April 3, 402)
Medical (April 3, 402)
Bridge (April 4, 402)
Scene of the Crime (April 4, 402)
Wardroom (April 4, 402)
Visitors (April 4, 402)
Resolute Revolution (Day 95, Common Era 13,449)
Invasion (April 4, 402)
Salvage (April 5, 402)
Prize (April 5, 402)
Mission Log (April 7, 402)
Queen Anne’s Revenge (April 7, 402)
The Long Run (April 7, 402)
Prisoners of War (Day 98?, Common Era 13,449)
Peeking (April 11, 402)
The Professor (April 17, 402)
Holding the Fort (April 19, 402)
Blackbeard (April 20, 402)
Burglars (April 20, 402)
Felony Breaking and Entering (April 20, 402)
Showtime (April 20, 402)
Receding Tide (April 21, 402)
Dinner Companions (Day 121? Common Era 13,449)
Rednecking (May 4, 402)
Council of War (May 11, 402)
Dwarf Giant (May 27, 402)
Odysseus (June 1, 402)
In Wait (June 4, 402)
The Stalk (June 5, 402)
Buccaneer (June 5, 402)
Hogan’s Alley (June 5, 402)
Packmule (June 8, 402)
Read More!
About the Author
Also by Blaze Ward
About Knotted Road Press
Trouble (April 3, 402)
Command Centurion Phil Kosnett didn’t figure he’d been asleep long. Just enough to get all the way to the bottom when an alert signal jolted him back awake.
It took several seconds for his brain to follow him out of the dream, time he took cataloging the volume around himself, looking for coherence. CS-405, his Corvette/Scout. Phil was in his cabin. Picture of his wife Xui Yi on the wall, with both kids’ latest school pics below that.
Why was there a red tinge to the lights?
His comm chirped a second time, snapping him fully awake. He reached out a hand and poked the button.
“Kosnett,” he more or less growled, still a little surly from deep sleep.
“Lau,” his first officer replied simply. She had the deck while he got everyone back to a normal watch rotation. “We have a problem.”
Phil exploded out of his bunk, keying the lights to full and looking for his tunic. Heather Lau was one of the best officers he had ever served with, in seventeen years active duty. She never raised unnecessary alarms.
“Be there in five,” Phil said aloud, stuffing his left foot into a slipper while he got an arm into his tunic. “What happened?”
“We just lost both JumpSails,” she replied in a hard, angry voice. “Explosion and fire in Engineering. Rushforth is shutting systems down, but we’re dead in space right now.”
“How far did we make it?” Phil asked, finally getting to the door to his cabin and unlocking the door.
“Roughly forty light hours out from Severnaya Zemlya,” came the reply after a moment to check her figures. Heather always double checked her figures. “We should be safe for a bit, but we’re still way behind enemy lines.”
Phil considered the situation for a moment, staring at his favorite picture of Xui Yi and wondering if he might never make it home to her. It was always an occupational hazard in the Republic of Aquitaine Navy. Even more so when you served with First Expeditionary Fleet, currently a thousand light years inside Buran space.
“You keep command,” Phil said. “I’ll go down and help Rushforth. If Chief Battenhouse isn’t awake, roust him and send him my way. Maintain red alert for now and have Siobhan take over as Tactical Officer.”
“On it,” she said, cutting the line.
Bad time to happen, but a good Command Centurion was always looking for opportunities to train his crew. Heather was going to be his peer soon, probably with the next command slot that opened up on this front. She should get comfortable with the idea.
Of course, if the fire was as bad as it could be, they might all end up in a prison camp.
Well, most of them.
Fleet Centurion Keller had reminded everyone of the standing orders for Command Centurions facing imminent capture.
If that happened, Phil Kosnett was expected to go down with his ship.
Engineering (April 3, 402)
Phil cleared the fifth frame hatch and could suddenly smell a tinge of smoke in the air of the aft-running corridor. Not bad enough to set off more alarms, or maybe Chief Engineer Rushforth had overridden them to keep the noise from getting on everyone’s nerves. She was like that.
There was a group of sailors in the hallway, just this side of the next frame hatch. Phil moved to join them. He recognized the squat figure of Bok Battenhouse from behind, standing next to the Chief Engineer, Kamila Rushforth. The Boatswain was almost as broad as he was tall, all shoulders, muscles, and long arms on a frame barely one hundred and seventy centimeters tall. In spite of being nearly a head taller than the Boatswain, Phil figured the gray-headed Chief still outweighed him.
As Phil stepped closer, Kam was issuing orders to a group of men and women in protective clothing and life support masks. She nearly smacked Phil in the face as he came up behind her, but he decided not to tease her about talking more with her hands than her mouth. That could wait until later.
“Okay, step four,” she was saying in a hard, authoritative voice, glancing back at him but not including Phil in the conversation. “Janowski, manually close up and check any air vents still open and then make sure all your people are clear. When you give me the signal, I’ll vent the entire space once hard, hold it for five minutes, and then you’ll have to go in with skinsuits to make sure all the louvers open up again so we can repressurize things. Questions?”
“Negative,” the other woman, Janowski, said. “Confirming channel four for the team?”
“Channel four,” the engineer said.
Phil watched without comment as Janowski led the other three firefighters to the hatch, popped it open, and then moved through quickly. A puff of smoke came the other direction like a djinni summoned from the bottle, except this one wasn’t about to offer Phil wishes.
Rushforth stepped to the hatch and sealed it from this side, leaving just the two of them, with Battenhouse close by. She took the time to make sure the seal was solid before she finally turned to face him.
Everything Kamila Rushforth did was careful and deliberate, in contrast to her name. She never rushed anywhere.
“Phil,” she said with a sharp nod.
“Status?” he asked.
One of the joys of this crew for Phil, and having so many people trying to get into any open slots with this fleet, was that his people were much better than average, at worst. Kamila Rushforth was better than most. At thirty-three, she was already a Chief Engineer and would probably be on a cruiser when the next slot opened.
It was nice, being able to expect excellence from his people as a matter of course.
She nodded once as a placeholder.
“We’ve shut down oxygen inside and flooded all the spaces with pure nitrogen once we accounted for crew members,” she said, biting the words off.
She wasn’t angry at him. Possibly at the gods that had chosen her ship to suffer an explosion. Combat was like that. Six hours ago, they had made the jump out from Severnaya Zemlya, having strafed the Starbase there in passing, as part of one of Jessica Keller’s most audacious raids yet.
And then something failed. Things like that happened in
combat and the immediate aftermath. It just happened to be CS-405 that took the hit.
“Casualties?” Phil asked, bracing himself.
These would be people he knew. Faces that made up the two hundred and seven names of his crew.
“Two confirmed dead, eight injured,” she said. “A couple bad enough they might not make it.”
“I’ll let the Surgeon handle that,” Phil replied. “I can’t do anything but get in his way right now. What do you need here?”
“Nothing at the moment, sir,” she answered. “If this works, we’ll snuff the fire out and freeze any hot spots. I’ve shut down the rear generators and all the engines as well. We can run on the forward array and batteries for a few hours, assuming we don’t have to fight.”
“This corvette is a scout, Kam,” he said, his own voice hard. “If we have to fight anything bigger than a pocket freighter, we’re in way worse trouble.”
“Hang on,” she said, putting one hand up to her ear. Her eyes lost focus. “Okay, Janowski. Confirming that everyone is safe and accounted for. Stand by for hard vacuum.”
As Phil watched, she moved to a screen on the port wall and called up a new board. She typed several commands and then turned back to him.
“I need a second senior officer’s approval to vent engineering,” she announced. “Was planning to call Heather, but you’re here.”
Phil moved to the board and entered a password on the second line of the override screen. The hallway abruptly filled with a siren that would have woken him completely up earlier, unlike the comm that just broke his sleep.
“Chief,” Kam said, finally acknowledging the old man remaining with them. “My people are going to be on that generator and the JumpSails. Have all your Damage Control teams running everything else down until we know where we’re at.”
“On it, Kam,” Bok said, grabbing his own comm from his belt and moving a little ways off so he could talk to his folks.
The man who was the Boatswain, senior enlisted man aboard, was sixty-two years old, and had served in the Navy continuously for forty-one years. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen or done in his time. Bok wasn’t an officer today because he didn’t want to be one, not because he wouldn’t have been damned good at it.
“Is there anything I can do?” Phil asked.
Again, good people, intent on doing a good job. All he generally had to do was point them at a problem and get the hell out of the way. Or let them work when the problem found them.
“Keep killer robots off my ass while I fix the Jump system, boss,” Kam said. “Won’t know any more than that until I get in there and start taking things apart.”
“Roger that,” Phil said. “Send me occasional updates when you have news.”
And then he walked away. His Chief Engineer and Boatswain had the technical stuff in hand. Either they could fix it, or they couldn’t.
His job was figuring out what they did next.
And how many people would make it home.
Next stop: Medbay.
Medical (April 3, 402)
The medbay was a madhouse when Phil arrived. For a crew of two hundred and seven, they had one Surgeon and two nurses, plus a variety of crewmembers with some level of medical training. It felt like everyone who wasn’t on a Damage Control team or on duty was down here, sewing, gluing, inspecting, or otherwise helping. Just a different kind of damage control.
Phil stopped at the open door and surveyed the chaos, rather than wading in. The room was standing room only. A familiar face was working on a patient close by.
“Max,” Phil said, drawing the Nursing Tech Yeoman’s eyes up. “Status?”
The man took a deep breath and kept cleaning a wound that was slowly dripping blood onto the metal floor. His eyes seemed far away for a moment, and then they snapped back to the present.
“Three dead, Commander,” Max said. “Doc Hanley’s got the last one in surgery with Andre assisting. Got one stable at critical right now. I’ve got the walking wounded. What do you need?”
“That’s all, Yeoman,” Phil said. “Tell Hanley I dropped by when he gets out, and let him know that we’re dead in space, so I can’t make a high-speed run back to the station to get him help.”
The man Max was working on started to move, to rise.
“I should be back there helping,” he said, trying to withdraw the wounded arm. “You can sew this up later.”
Max surprised both of them by coming out of his squat and shoving the larger engineer bodily back into the chair.
“You can do that when I’m done with you,” Max growled. “Sit down.”
Another surprise. Yeoman Max Bathurst was a slender man of average build, giving up something like ten centimeters and ten kilos to the bigger engineer, First-Rate-Spacer Markus Dunklin. The extra mass hadn’t helped him one bit with the smaller man.
“Commander?” Dunklin asked for help.
“You heard the man, Dunklin,” Phil said. “Get the arm cleaned and glued first. You can head aft only after Max releases you. Boatswain and Chief Engineer will be at it for a while.”
“Aye, sir,” Dunklin subsided. “Will do.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Max said as he went back to scanning the wound for any more fragments to remove.
“Thank you, Max,” Phil said. “I’m just glad you have everything under control here.”
He exited. Doc Hanley didn’t need him interrupting a surgery to say anything that Max hadn’t been able to convey.
Plus, he had what he needed. The ship was wounded. The crew as well. But both could overcome that, once he figured out how to get them out of enemy space and home.
Bridge (April 4, 402)
Phil had pulled his top two officers into the small day-office off the bridge so they could talk privately. It was the place where the officer of the deck could do paperwork in semi-seclusion, still not more than a moment away from any crew needs. Not that they had anything that needed to be kept from the crew, but the officers would be in damage control on the humans around here as well as the steel for a while. Best to keep things contained for now.
Senior Centurion Heather Lau was his Executive Officer. She handled everything Tactical when they were in combat. A long, slender woman with equally-long, black hair, she always appeared to be taller than she was, until you got close enough to realize that those bright, green eyes weren’t at your level. They just felt that way at times. Like his Chief Engineer, he expected to lose Lau as soon as a slot opened up, for Heather to take command of another corvette. As long as it was with First Expeditionary Fleet.
He could see Heather turning down a command back home on a quiet frontier. She wasn’t one of the angry warriors like Alber’ d’Maine accumulated on VI Victrix, but she would want a war posting. That much he knew.
And where Heather was tall and pale, his Second Officer was short, with brown skin so dark it almost looked black in the right light and curly hair she normally kept buzzed tight against her skull. Would need to do it again in a few days.
Siobhan Skokomish was still more of a quiet introvert in most things than Heather, a nav officer who did complicated math problems in her head. But like the Chief Engineer, never a wasted movement in her calm deliberation.
“Should the Engineer be here?” Heather asked as they sat.
“No,” Phil said. “I need her and the Boatswain fixing things. What do we know for certain?”
“I had Siobhan review the logs of the run on that station yesterday,” Heather said. “We had the van on the port side, leading in VI Victrix. After they woke up, the station poured all their available fire into Denis Jež and Vanguard, with a few shots into the escorts and almost nothing aimed at the three cruisers.”
“And I was jamming them with everything I had,” Siobhan added. “They only got four solid hits on us. Shield caught two with a little bit of leakage. The other two hit metal, but we were running away full tilt on both. Glancing shots at extreme range.”
�
�Yes,” Phil agreed. “Nothing on the Damage Control reports looked bad. Mostly armor and hull systems. Do we know what caused that generator to overload?”
“Negative,” Siobhan replied. “According to maintenance records, it was about mid-life to the next major service, and hadn’t given us any issues before now.”
“Okay, so we’ve made it clear from the attack, everything looked good at that point, and I went to bed,” Phil said. “What happened next?”
“T-minus seventeen minutes, that generator started throwing odd errors,” Heather took up the narrative again, checking her notes on a tablet on the table top in front of her. “Nothing bad, just starting to waver off zero by a few points. Other systems have behaved worse with no problems, and we had other complications we were sorting out, trying to make sure we hit rendezvous with the rest of the squadron.”
“Siobhan?” Phil asked.
“Went through the error logs, Phil,” she replied, brown eyes squinted at the memory. “Nothing jumped out at me, but I’m a pilot, not an engineer. Kam might be able to see something in all the noise.”
“Make a note to have her team review everything when the current emergency is over,” he ordered.
“Will do,” Heather continued. “T-minus eight minutes, the errors suddenly spike hard. Chief Engineer was still on duty and moves to shut the generator down as it is suddenly well outside normal behavior and starts getting worse.”
